


paved with good intentions

by wednesdaysky



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Gen, Introspection, Minor Violence, Pre-Canon, References to Depression, Spoilers for Episode 100
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-11-14 00:45:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11196930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wednesdaysky/pseuds/wednesdaysky
Summary: Maybe they don't understand him.  Maybe he doesn't understand himself.  But family has your back, even when he's not sure you want him at all.  A series of vignettes.





	paved with good intentions

**Author's Note:**

> I word-vomited because of Talks Machina. Oops.

The scar is new enough that it still aches sometimes, when the weather changes suddenly, or late at night.  He feels the side of his cheek give a throb as purple-black flames race toward him.  He rolls his shoulders, braces one foot in front of himself.  Then he reaches with one outstretched hand, and snaps his fingers.  The fire arcs around him and dissolves into nothing.

Scanlan stares up at the dais, at the opaque rainbow orb with the murderer of Percy's family inside.

This isn't how he wanted to die.

But then, it never is, is it?

—

He doesn't have a chance to fight back before the cold suddenly washes over him.  The green dragon's snout looms large in his gaze and all he can do is hope that Vax hasn't gotten _everyone_ killed this time, that what little he himself managed to do has been any help at all, that—  That Kaylie will somehow forgive him if he doesn't make it back.  He never wanted to break a promise to his family.  Any of his family.  This isn't how he wanted to die.  But then, it never is, is it?

—

It's sweltering hot, but that's not why he's sweating right now.  He hums under his breath as he tries his best to keep his spell going, intent stare leveled at the giant efreet standing before him in the alley, currently strangling its fellow; he can't quite hold back a cringe as it digs in its thumbs.  His magic is holding steady for the moment, but he knows almost nothing about these creatures or their capabilities — they could both still be on him at any second.  His whole body is bowstring-taut as he watches and waits and listens and he can't go anywhere yet, he has to wait longer, a little longer — he can still hear footsteps behind him, if he flees the rest of them might not get away.  Right now Scanlan's the only thing standing between his friends and the wrath of these efreeti, the attention they could bring from the city guard, and the very real danger of slavery or much, much worse.

He holds his ground; he'll break out some more tricks if he has to.  This isn't how he wanted to die.  But then, it never is, is it?

—

Vax falls.  Drags the devil with him.  It's a long way to the bottom of the tower.  There was blood.

Scanlan can't remember the last time he felt this _angry._

He's not really thinking about anything past getting to the other side of this gap, helping his friend, taking some goddamn revenge.  It might already be too late.  His magic only reaches so far, his voice isn't going to carry all the way down and it's some ungodly hour right now, he doesn't have all his instruments—

There's nothing for it, but it's not even really a hard decision to make.  Mythcarver slides out of its sheath, silver and deadly.  He takes a running leap off the tower as easy as anything and aims for the tiger stripes.  Wind rushes past him, the grass gets closer; Vax'ildan is bleeding and unconscious on the ground.  Maybe Scanlan can at least do something about that before probably passing out from this fall and getting eaten.

This isn't how he wanted to die.  But then, it never is, is it?

—

All of them are tired and heartsick and afraid.  It only takes one look at their faces to tell that nobody is prepared for this.  The vaunted heroes of Emon are terrified out of their minds, and he can relate.  Here he is in the middle of the world ending, and for the first time in his entire life, he has to somehow make sure he comes out the other end of it not-dead.  He can't remember caring whether he turned up dead or not since...well, too many decades to be worth counting.

So they're afraid, they're mourning, they're exhausted, they're confused, and now they're arguing.  No one knows what to do.  Vox Machina are terrible planners at the best of times, nevermind when dragons have destroyed half of local civilization and the fate of a continent literally rests on their shoulders.  The volume is rising and someone is stressing about spells and he's not even sure what they're talking about at this point, and Scanlan puts a little bardic resonance into his voice as he raises one small hand to cut through the noise:

"All right, guys, let's just stop and think for a second.  What's the plan?  Where do we head from here?  Sounds like we've got these three options—"

Six weary faces turn in his direction at once, all silently hoping for some answer to this mess, and for a moment the undivided attention is a little dizzying.

Vox Machina doesn't _really_ have a leader, of course, but he thinks somebody ought to act like one once in a while.  Try to herd the cats.  Otherwise nothing's getting done around here at all, and he doesn't think he could sleep at night if he sent these kids off to their deaths without trying everything he could manage to keep them safe.

Who is he kidding, he's not getting out of this alive.  This isn't how he wanted to die.  But then, it never is, is it?

—

The outskirts of Stillben are humid, sticky, soggy, and frankly an absolutely terrible place to camp.  Scanlan sits a fair distance from the fire trying rather vainly to tune his lute for this weather, watching out of the corner of his eye as his new acquaintances, the half-elven twins, murmur to one another warily.  They're dressed decently enough, but their eyes are guarded and their faces just a little too lean.  He easily recognizes two people who have nothing in the world but each other.  He can remember a time when his position in the world was something like that, minus the twin.  And the giant, slobbery, admittedly intimidating bear.

Yes, he remembers a time like that.  He remembers that it was a hard-won victory to learn how to catch flies with honey as a tiny, scrawny gnomish child, not the type of person anyone was likely to give a second glance; but that had only made it all the sweeter when social niceties had first gotten him some food, first gotten him a job, first gotten him companionship and bedmates.

He notices the girl glance his way, and gives Vex an amiable smile as he gestures to the lute.

"Think I might've gotten the damned thing tuned at last.  Would the two of you care for a song to kill some time?  I know _I_ could use a distraction from the swamp fumes, at least."

They look at each other for a second, some silent communication passing between them.  The boy is the one to meet his eyes this time.  He holds up the metal flask in his hand to dangle in Scanlan's direction.

"Well, if you're going to the trouble of playing for us, no need to sit all the way over there," Vax invites, and Scanlan needs no further prompting to come settle himself down in the twins' space.  He accepts that flask for a swig and a grin before strumming his first chord.

They're all right, these kids.  Maybe he can try to pass on a few of his little tricks while he's here.  Seems as though they could use a leg up in the world, and — no time like the present, right?

After all, once this job is over, who knows if he'll ever see them again.

—

Skeletons are screeching in the dark, a black sword flashes, and out of the corner of his eye Scanlan can see Pike cowering in a ball of muddled fear.  Everyone's engaged, the dark cavern a chaotic mess of shrieks and the clash of blades.  Delilah could get away, at this rate.  There's absolutely no telling what's going on inside that shimmering prismatic orb.  The woman who helped slaughter the de Rolos, who subjugated Whitestone and brought terror to so many — gods only know how she's even alive, or what she could be planning with the unfathomable magic of the ziggurat.  For all Scanlan knows she might have teleported herself away straight to the one under Whitestone Castle by now.  She could raze the place to the ground.  Maybe there's some way to resurrect her nasty husband again; who could even guess?  There's no telling what she's thinking, only that she means nothing good and if she gets away, countless people could very well die.  All of Tal'Dorei could be in danger once again.

More importantly, Delilah Briarwood has hurt his family, and she's not going to stop hurting them until she's _actually dead this time_.

There's nothing for it, but it's not even really a hard decision to make.  It never is, is it?

At the end of the day it doesn't matter that he left, or how he feels, or whether they hate him now.  He knows where his heart lies.  How strange a thing to realize, after he threw it away once, that for the first time in decades he has—  had—  Has a home.

If he can't go back to it after this, that's all right.  He's used to it.  That makes it no less worth protecting.

He sings a song to Kaylie in his heart, a promise, an apology; and he raises his hand again to Dimension Door inside.

 

 

 

_(the road to hell is shorter than you might think.)_


End file.
